


Off Day

by Be_the_Spark



Category: Jessica Jones - Fandom, The Defenders, daredevil - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Mystery/Suspense, Slow Burn, case-work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-04-29 05:56:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14466468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Be_the_Spark/pseuds/Be_the_Spark
Summary: It figures with Jessica's luck that while her best friend is being charged with manslaughter, she's entrusted with a case to find NYPD's prize German Shepherd. But the former service animal turns out to be a lead to all kinds of helpful things, including someone who could help clear Trish's name: the assumedly deceased attorney with razor sharp instincts, Matt Murdock. Meeting Matt's resistance towards getting involved with a threat to out him as a warm body, Jessica now has to tag along as he takes down the Triad. Meanwhile, they must somehow protect Trish legally without Matt ever being in a room with her.Takes place after events of The Defenders.





	1. Case of NYPD Blues

**Author's Note:**

> There's a tiger in the room and a baby in the closet  
> Pour another drink Mom, I don't even want it  
> Then I turn around and think I see someone that looks like you
> 
> ~ My Medicine (by The Pretty Reckless)

 

The jet-black limousine had been expensive. So brand new, in fact, that the scent of the finish was still fresh on the hood. It had been rolling around the curb to the club advertised with a sign flashing neon-pink letters, Orchid. Inside, a pair of VIP access cards dangled above the dashboard, a crude pendulum counting the seconds, minutes, and hours that would come.

The vehicle was neatly torn in half, a second car wedged in between. The chauffer, having been thrown into the steering wheel, did not so much as twitch an eye as the electronic screams of ambulance meeting police car sirens approached. Red and blue lights performed a disorienting dance under this corner of New York’s midnight sky.

Officers emerged from two police cars, approaching the protruding car with caution. As the ambulance workers prepared a gurney, an officer ran the plates.

“Shit,” he said to his partner.

“What is it?”

“This killer sandwich here…the centerpiece belongs to that girl on talk radio.”

“Trish Walker? Jesus, her face is on every bus I see downtown.” The cop shook his head and yelled to the paramedic loading the limo driver onto the gurney. “Hey, how’s that one looking?”

“Concussion!” came the shouted answer. “He was wearing his seatbelt.”

The cop nodded, then asked for status on Trish Walker. Another concussion, although she’d also have to be checked for her blood alcohol levels. “What a mess,” he breathed in morbid amazement.

An officer from the other patrol car approached in time to hear him. “It’s about to get worse for that woman. There’s something else you’ve gotta see.”

They went around to the other side of the limousine, where the back half looked the way an unopened beer can did under a boot.

“Is that what I think it is?” asked the first officer, looking through the broken window in dismay.

“Afraid so,” said the other one. “That poor kid never stood a chance.”

 

**12 Hours Earlier**

 

_Let’s play a drinking game. You take a shot each time someone says help me, only to be tracking down their lost bicycle five minutes later. Take one whenever you catch a smile in your direction, and two when you see a dead body – or several._

“You need something else, hun?”

Jessica blinked her bleary eyes as she pushed the home button of her cell phone. The screen lit with the time: A quarter to noon. “Coffee,” she said, propping her head with an elbow on the bar counter. As the woman turned to get a pot started, Jessica raised her voice a little to add, “Splash of whiskey!”

Half a shot for a word of common courtesy. It was a good thing she was in the generally uncouth Hell’s Kitchen. If she’d lived in, say, Canada, she doubted she would survive it.

This bar was not on her usual hopping list. It was called Josie’s, and its crowd of drinkers were a lot more social than Jessica allowed herself to be. What was wrong with them anyway? She was willing to wager that at least a quarter of them had marital problems. Eighty-five percent had chronic addictions, including but not limited to alcohol. And nearly everyone knew a person who had died within the past three months.

Three months. Had it been that long? Her head pounded like a son of a bitch, like iron pipes striking aluminum bars. She groaned a little and pushed a fallen lock of jet black hair off her forehead, trying now to remember one of the memories she’d successfully drunk into oblivion. Anyone who thought forgetting wasn’t worth endangering her liver clearly had never met a mind-controlling psychopath before. They’d also likely never entangled with a batshit-hokey cult that had dropped the by-pamphlet recruiting method in favor of creating earthquakes and raising the dead.

 But yeah, mostly the first one.

“Hi,” a familiar voice came from behind her. “It’s Jessica, isn’t it?”

In spite of every inclination to keep her aching neck stationary, she turned to see a tall blonde woman in a pencil skirt. “That’s me,” she drawled at Karen Page. “Short for Scary-Ass Jessica Jones.”

The woman half-smiled. “I hadn’t heard that one.”

Jessica had. From the thirteen-year-old stoner who lived in her building, in fact. She liked it – hopefully it would stick.

“I haven’t seen you around,” Karen said.

“Yeah, all my other bars have been cutting me off early lately. It’s so annoying.”

Karen hesitated. “I mean, since that night…”

_Oh, you mean since the night my friends and I blew up a skyscraper on someone you loved? You’re right, why wouldn’t I call you up after that?_

Jessica looked past Karen, at a table hosting Franklin Nelson, who waved. Nelson, who worked for the law firm that tossed cases her way every now and then like a dog bone. Nelson, who seemed to work with everyone she knew these days.

“So this is your guys’ ‘place’?” she said to Karen at last.

The reporter shrugged. “Not so much anymore,” she confessed. “Lots of memories, though.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Here you go,” interrupted the female bartender, sliding Jessica a tall cup of coffee. She inhaled it – more coffee than whiskey.

Karen Page meanwhile was taking turtle-slow steps towards the barstool next to her. Jessica wasn’t sure whether she was expecting Scary Jessica Jones to bite her or to just take off if she got too close too fast.

“I’m not going til I’ve had my coffee,” she informed her. “You can park your ass there if you want.”

The other woman nodded and took the seat by her. Jessica noticed that her blue eyes were less red-rimmed than they were the last time she’d seen them. That was a sign of moving on from grief, wasn’t it?

No, those signs were bullshit.

Jessica may have been actively avoiding the friends of Matt Murdock for the past three months, but Trish and Karen had established some kind of rapport. With one of them a reporter and the other a radio talk show host, they were bound to occasionally lean on each other for leads in their chosen fields. Being stuck in a temporary Superhero Sidekick Protection Program together had been nothing if not enterprising.

According to Trish, Karen’s story had many surprising turns: she’d been framed for murder, nearly murdered in her jail cell, and then a pair of lawyers showed up for her, offering free service in exchange for building their clientele. Jessica was born inherently suspicious of Good Samaritans but by now she figured building a clientele had been an excuse to help Karen for free and not the reason. At least, that’s how it probably would have been to Matt.

But then, what the hell did Jessica Jones know about the motives going on inside the head of the late Devil of Hell’s Kitchen?

“I’m sorry,” she said abruptly. “For skipping the funeral. I’m not…not really – .”

“Catholic,” finished Karen. No judgement in her tone, withheld or otherwise. Apparently Jessica was wading within the Saints’ half of Hell.

She tried to match Karen’s smile, but it felt unnatural. Like painting maple syrup on her mouth. Giving up, she said, “I mean – not comfortable with religion in general. Icons, idolatry. If I had to, I’d probably be into nature and sun worship and stuff.”

As Karen raised her eyebrows in surprise, the private detective refrained from a cringe. _Witchcraft,_ she seethed. _Satanism. Hell, Scientology would’ve been more believable._

While she struggled over her mortifying choice of words, she noticed Karen looking back at Nelson. “Hey,” she leaned in to level her gaze with Jessica’s, “We’re about to order food. Do you want to join us?”

More courtesy. Jessica stared at the contents of her cup, then took an unhealthy gulp. “Nah,” she said, injecting as much regret as she could into her refusal.

Then she pulled out a wad of bills for Josie, who eyed her tragically. “Not for that, hun. Take it on the house.”

Great. Where were all the assholes? She snapped her phone from the counter and said to Karen, “Sorry, I need to get back to work.”

Karen Page’s face was as full of insight as it was sorrow. “I understand. If you’re free sometime, I’d like to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“Midland Circle.”

Damn it. This lady, for all her walk-softly demeanor, was deceptively ballsy. Jessica fiddled with one of her black coat’s pocket zippers before saying, without the hint of a drunken slur, “Look, I don’t have time to talk about that. I’m making a point not to have time for that. All I can say is what I said before. I’m sorry it happened.”

She staggered out the door, still muttering her apologies and excuses to the unaffected breeze. But even when she’d fallen silent, walking under an ashy blue sky through the late morning throng could not clear her muddled head.

Luke had gone to the funeral. He’d even offered to give her a ride there. “It doesn’t feel right,” she could hear herself saying to him again, standing by the window of Alias Investigations. “We didn’t know him. He wasn’t our friend _._ ”

“This isn’t about mourning, Jessica,” he’d answered, too tolerant for an incredulous expression. “It’s about honoring. Respecting his sacrifice.”

Had it been, though? Back at Midland Circle, Murdock had made the call to stay behind. Stay behind with her - his ex-love, Elektra Natchios, the woman who’d been trying to kill them all. Whether it was to ensure Elektra’s fate or effectively end his own, Jessica found herself obsessing over the question. Which, as a habit most unlike her, was kept to herself. Invisible to the outside, like an irritating canka sore. So Luke went without her. As did Danny Rand.

And Jessica – she’d paced idly around the alley outside the church. She could hear faint echoes of the choir, the muffled sermon of the priest. She knew when Karen Page had finished reading a psalm. But by the time Nelson was delivering the eulogy, curiosity had grabbed Jessica with its tenterhooks. She’d snuck through the front door in time to hear, “I’m sure we can all attest to Matthew Murdock’s complicated personality. In a lot of ways, he was a host of contradictions. Beyond the obvious, I mean -,” he swallowed a wry chuckle. “He was generous, not stupid. He could fool you into thinking he had the patience of a saint, but it wasn’t infinite. There was this darkness in him, but if anything, it just made the light shine stronger. Sorry if that sounds like waxing poetic. The point is, it’s not that we really need Matt Murdock back with us. We just need to be more like him.”

Therein lied Jessica’s conflict. Danny had gone to the funeral for his guilt – he’d been aware of Matt’s endgame and done as he was told. Luke had gone out of respect. Things like that came easy to him. But for herself, someone who’d spent more time in the enigmatic lawyer’s company than either of the other two, she knew something they didn’t. Nelson had hit the nail on the head – someone like her, whose sharp edges and acidic tongue protected what precious little light was left inside her, needed for there to be more Matt Murdocks in the world. Not the Daredevil, but the man who could tell you both everything about himself and nothing all at once. Who used courteous deflection to inspire confidence, not just in himself but in others. Jessica had mocked him for it when he was alive, but now she knew. The world she’d deemed as a shithole before truly was so now, and the vigilante who’d died turning it that way was now being worshipped for his “sacrifice.”

       

***

  

Alias Investigations was a small private detective practice operating out of an even smaller apartment space. Worse, it was growing out of its own name. In all fairness, Jessica had named it for effect. _Jessica Jones: Super P.I._ belonged with syndicated has-beens like _Matlock_ and _J.A.G._ But these days, she was struggling to why something as broodingly vague as Alias Investigations was now hunting down dog-nappers.

Then Officer Kerrigan slid her a check for one grand, and suddenly it was Jessica Jones, at your service. As she stared at the deposit, her voice awkwardly searched for some words. “Must be a helluva sniffer,” she said at last.

Kerrigan’s brown bob tilted with a short nod. “Hercules is the pride of the K-9 task force. He’s been on thirty-one raids in the three years he’s been with us.”

“Where was he before?”

“He was a service animal. The owner gave him up, citing behavior problems such as aggression, distractibility. None of which our department has encountered,” she added quickly, as though the animal-adverse detective facing her was judging. The officer pulled out a picture of a squad including herself, plus one German shepherd. “He’s very friendly,” insisted Kerrigan.

Jessica held up her hands, denying prejudice. “I just need the name and address of his previous owner.”

The way Kerrigan blinked, it was clear to Jessica that it hadn’t occurred to her client the likelihood of Hercules being taken back by his former master. A rookie that was never going to make it above beat cop status at this rate.

A chord of sympathy intruding on her embrittled conscience, Jessica passed the check back. “Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll take a hundred from this if I can find him within the next twenty-four hours. If it takes longer, we’ll revisit cost of services.”

The officer nodded, startled but markedly relieved. Leaving behind Hercules’s last address on a card, Kerrigan was on her way back down the hall when Jessica grumbled aloud, “And today’s Idiot Award goes to…” And threw her head on her crowded desk. “Ugh.”

By five o’ clock she was standing at Langston Herbst’s door, under a cracking frame buried entirely in the wild roots of hanging plants. The little man who answered looked at her with a pair of alarmed eyes.

“Mr. Herbst?” said Jessica, thrown by the expectation that she’d be dealing with the visually impaired. But after delivering the cliff-notes version of why she was there, Herbst was happy to invite her in and reminisce about Hercules. “I got surgery a year ago, so I have no need for a seeing-eye dog anymore,” he explained. “Still, I do miss that rascal.”

Jessica raised an eyebrow. “But you gave him up three years ago, didn’t you?”

“Why, yes I did. He bit the neighbor, nearly got me sued.” The man shook his head, scratching a faint wrinkle between his eyebrows. “It killed me to let him go, but I hear the NYPD has instilled some discipline since taking him in. I suppose that was meant to be.”

“So have you ever felt like, you know, getting him back?” Jessica had been careful to refrain from any direct accusation. But Herbst, evidently seeing her line of thought, laughed.

“What would I use him for?” He coughed into his fist. “Oh, but I’ll tell you. It was so funny that he’d attack someone, when he was more likely to just follow you home.”

Her ears pricking up at the potential clue, Jessica said, “Did he have certain people he’d follow home?”

“Oh, he had his favorites.”

She leaned in. “Can you give me a list?”

 

***

 

Jessica spent the rest of her night in, dialing a lengthy list of digits to check on Hercules’s “favorites.” The problem was, Herbst seemed to have given her names that ran from Harlem all the way to Queens. There had to be a way to narrow it down. Her fingers pinched the edge of Hercules’s photo. Herbst was right; it was a bit odd that Lassie-reborn would have just one bad mark on his record. What had made the neighbor so special?

With a sigh, she called Jeri Hogarth’s office.

“Jessica Jones,” the coolly amused voice answered. “I was beginning to think you didn’t have time for anything besides cellphone pinging these days.”

“I make time for Jack Daniels,” she replied, deliberately arching her tone for effect.

“Well, we don’t have any need for that. For you, more specifically.”

Flaunting a trademark eyeroll that Jeri couldn’t see, Jessica said, “I just need to know if you ever had a senior client named Langston Herbst.”

“What, off the top of my head? Jessica, what is this about?”

“Just look into it, okay? It’s a case commissioned by the NYPD.”

Jeri Hogarth’s impatient scoff crackled into the phone’s receiver. But being on New York’s police’s payroll implied good money. She didn’t have to know Jessica had turned down most of it.

“I will make some inquiries.”

“And I will hear about them tomorrow.”

“Fine. Get some sleep, Ms. Jones.”

It was half-past midnight when her phone rang. Disbelieving in Hogarth’s promise, Jessica nonetheless scrambled to answer the phone.

“Hello?”

A beat later, an unexpected voice said, “Hi, Ms. Jones? This is Franklin Nelson from Hogarth, Chao, & Benoist -.”

“Yeah?” interrupted Jessica. “Sorry, I know I only called a few hours ago.”

“Uh, okay,” said Nelson, sounding hesitant. “Ms. Jones, I’d like you to come in on behalf of my client.”

If Jessica had had wheels, they would have stuck in that second. “Your client,” she repeated.

“Your friend, Trisha Walker, was just in a serious car accident.”

Her fingers froze on the phone like ice. She knew she needed to sit down, but her limbs were locked, as though remaining motionless could prevent any worse news from being said.

“Is – is she all right?” Jessica blurted, her ability to form sentences growing weaker. “I mean – what happened – how?”

Mercifully, Nelson addressed the first question before providing further information. “Yes, she’s in the hospital, under observation. She has a moderate concussion. She woke up and asked for you.”

“I’ll be right over – .”

“Okay, but Ms. Jones? Trisha is under arrest for vehicular manslaughter.”

The charge didn’t make sense, didn’t matter. Trish was still alive. For everything else, they’d kick its ass. She grabbed her coat from the floor and said into the phone, “Tell me on the way.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Orchids and Bad Fortune Cookies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I'm stuck in the ground  
> Spin me round, won't you spin me round  
> You're a void, a crack in the mirror  
> See me now, if you could see me now  
> You slipped through the night  
> Then walked out skin tight
> 
> ~Lights Out (by Royal Blood)

A typical car crash victim at Metro-General Hospital was supposed to recover in a room with flowers, balloons, get-well cards and teddy bears.

One that was a celebrity was guaranteed the double of that amount. Trish Walker, however, had two armed police guards stationed outside her ward, and a metal handcuff chaining a wrist to her hospital bed.

Jessica barely had time to acknowledge Franklin Nelson, who’d met her at the elevator, before charging towards the entrance of Trish’s room. “What the hell?” she demanded.

“I concur,” said Nelson, turning to the guard on the left. “Do you mind? My client is at worst a drunk driver, not Michael Myers.”

“She’s neither,” snapped Jessica.

“Of course she isn’t.” Nelson sized up the guards with disdain. “Don’t get too comfortable, gentlemen. I’ll get a court to order your removal. You’ll be back on the streets with the meter maids by doughnut time.”

“Hold it,” said the other guard sharply. “We’re here for protection.”

Jessica exchanged a startled look with the attorney, who said, “Excuse me?”

“You heard him,” said the guard’s partner, his impatience unbridled. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Nelson shot Jessica a furtive glance. “You go on in,” he said, a cautious note in his tone. “I’m going to look into this.” He pulled out his phone and headed for a waiting room. Jessica went inside. Where Trish should have been sleeping at one in the morning, she was wide awake.

Jessica moved closer, taking in her friend’s appearance. A good deal of her was now covered in cotton bandages and medical tape, resulting in the host of Trish Talk looking like a giant human Q-Tip. The sight of her bloodshot eyes tripped the private investigator’s rationale, however, and for a moment Jessica wondered if Trish really had been driving drunk. Then she blinked rapidly, revealing tears.

“Do you remember,” whispered Trish, “when Kilgrave almost got me to kill myself?”

Jessica went rigid, as she always did at the name mentioned. Rather than wait for a response, Trish choked out, “At least I wasn’t the monster there.” Her face strained, wrestling between composure and a sob.

Unfortunately, soothing was not Jessica’s superpower. Franklin Nelson would likely have more talent in that area, and she was ashamed to know it. “Look,” she said at last, “whatever happened, it doesn’t sound from Starsky and Hutch out there like there’s anyone looking to railroad you – .”

“I’m handcuffed to a bed!”

Jessica shrugged helplessly. “At least you’ve done that before.”

“I killed someone, Jess – .”

“Trish – .”

Her friend raised her voice til it cracked. “A kid. A little boy, just nine years old!”

Hesitating briefly, Jessica took the hand without a metal bracelet on it and gripped it tight.

A surprising, bittersweet smile parted Trish’s mouth.

“What?” asked Jessica.

“You really suck at this today.”

A chuckle caught painfully in Jessica’s throat. “I know. So help me with something I’m better at.”

“Jessica,” the other woman groaned.

“Trish,” she said, dropping all reach for levity. “What happened with you doesn’t seem right. Why were you even driving? Did New York run out of cabs?”

Trish made a face. “I was meeting Billy Hewett. He works as a valet for a nightclub called Orchid.”

“Billy Hewett,” repeated Jessica. The name struck her as familiar, and thanks to her profession the information floated to the front of her beer-battered brain. “You mean the guy who called you out on air last week, threatening to press charges for damages - .”

“ – Caused by slander,” finished Trish. She sighed. “Yeah, I know. I thought if I could just fix whatever it was I broke for him, he wouldn’t try to shut me down.”

“How’d it go?”

The unhappy whimper Trish made spoke more than words could. “It got tired, really fast. I wound up yelling and then leaving.”

Jessica eyed her with serious consideration. Something was missing from the story – a starring agent, in fact. “Trish,” she said quietly, “What did you drink while you were there?”

Trish shook her head. “A few specialty cocktails. I can’t remember what’s in them. You’ve done that before,” she added, distraught humor flickering in her voice.

“So basically, you had this kumbaya sit-down with a hostile caller. Did you order your own drinks or did he?”

Trish frowned. “I think…he did.” Her eyes widened, and looked up at Jessica for judgement. “That was a mistake.” 

It was a grave mistake for Trish. Fortunately, it was also a mistake for Billy Hewett, the kind that kicked off the puzzles which fell out of Jessica Jones’s box.

The sound of a throat clearing itself caught them off guard. Thankfully, it was only Franklin Nelson, standing awkwardly a few steps inside the room. “I, uh, found out what about your case required a protective detail outside your room,” he said to Trish. “I assume you want Ms. Jones to hear this?”

Jessica looked at Trish, who swallowed and gave a little nod.

Nelson, seeming on the split-second verge of laughing for stress, began. “The police spoke to the driver of the limousine. Who, between a rock and a hard place, admitted the truth about his profession: Driving around nine year old Li Loong.”

He broke off at that point, which left Jessica irritated. “Okay? What’s the kicker, Nelson?”

He folded his arms. “How about that Li Loong was the only son of a man named Guo, who has some pretty high-profile connections in the Chinese Triad?”

Suddenly, Jessica found herself missing the previous twelve hours, when her biggest obstacles had been wrestling with the goodwill in her conscience and finding a canine that seemed to have ADHD.

“Well,” she said, awkwardly breaking the silence. “I don’t suppose anyone’s in the mood for takeout right now.”

As Trish shook her head in disbelief, Nelson jerked his head curtly at Jessica to indicate continuing their conversation outside the room. She patted Trish’s bandaged arm and said, “I’ll be back before the ninjas attack.”

Her friend rolled her eyes. “You are so not funny.”

No, she wasn’t. Jessica was terrified. But so was Trish, and the last thing they needed was to feed off each other’s fears. She followed Franklin out through the hall and into the lobby.

“So, you really think some Chinese assassins are coming here?”

Nelson whirled on her, a silencing finger on his lips. They moved into an elevator, and he switched the lock function. “If there’s one thing I learned from watching my best friend fight the Yakuza, it’s that these mobs could have spy chains planted everywhere from the cooking staff to sanitation.”

A mental picture of what the hospital food meeting the sanitation team could implicate churned out of Franklin’s words, and Jessica wrinkled her nose in disgust. “That definitely kills my craving for hot and sour soup.”

“Uh huh.” Nelson sighed, pulling his hands back through his slicked dark-blond hair. Jessica watched him, curious in spite of herself.

“Did Trish ask you to be her lawyer?”

He gave a slight shrug. “You were the first person she asked for when she woke up. But she couldn’t get you on the phone without an attorney present, so she asked for me.”

“Why?” Trish barely knew him. But, upon thinking about it further, Jessica answered her own question. “Because she’s friends with Karen Page, and Karen is friends with you.”

“That’s how it works,” said Nelson, briefly flippant. Then a despondent look washed over him, and he seemed as haunted as Trish did. “Not that I’m the right guy for this situation. God, I hate saying this, but he would have really come in handy for this.”

Jessica couldn’t deny it. This was, after all, exactly what Matt Murdock could do better than any other attorney in the state. _More like the entire planet,_ she corrected herself dryly. “Hey, look, while this subject is on the table, you guys never happened to take a case involving a German Shepherd attacking his neighbor, did you?”

Nelson’s face scrunched up, perplexed by the throw of this topic. “Not unless you mean that time my insane Bavarian uncle came to stay with us. Wait,” he interjected, before Jessica could finally flip the elevator switch. “Hold on. I remember just getting out of law school, and neither one of us could do anything except provide free counsel. So we did that for a man with a service dog. I kept joking that Matt should get one.” He chuckled at a memory that seemed simultaneously warm and painful to him. “That thing _hated_ me. I nearly sued the old bastard myself.”

She listened, trying not to get sucked into the emotion of Nelson’s nostalgia. It didn’t work – ever since Jessica had first pulled Matthew Murdock’s file out at the police station and read what had been known of his story, she was in a deniable, constant state of just wanting to know _more._

“Let me guess,” she said. “Hercules followed Murdock home.”

Murdock’s former partner nodded wistfully. “The dog loved his free parking space users.” Then he blinked out of the reverie. “Did something happen to him?” He flicked the switch at last, allowing the elevator’s descent.

“Dognapped, maybe,” allowed Jessica as they passed through the floors.

Nelson raised his eyebrows. “Doubtful. You would know if you’d ever felt the teeth on him.” The elevator doors split open, drawing Jessica’s conversation with Nelson to a close. “One thing, Ms. Jones?” he added. “You might want to pick up a plain bun polish while you’re searching.”

“Really?”

He half-smiled in a way that reminded her of Karen. “It was Matt’s trick.”

Stepping out of the doors, Jessica turned back to Nelson, an odd sense of gratitude brewing inside her. She didn’t do smiles, but she did manage to say, “Thanks, Nelson.” The words felt like they belonged on a foreign tongue, but it wasn’t necessarily a bad feeling.

Then Nelson smiled a little broader, and said, “Oh, you can call me Foggy.”

Jessica stared. “I’m not calling you that.”

 Returning to her safety net of blunt-laced vocabulary, she walked out of the hospital and onto the twilight-cloaked street.

 

*******

Jessica's head hurt like she'd either had too much to drink or simply needed another shot. And while exhaustion was burning in her bones, there was still so much work to be done. With the car crash effectively shutting the nightclub Orchid down as a crime scene, Jessica was stumped. Billy Hewett’s phone number was unlisted. His address? Virtually nonexistent. And his base of employment was currently surrounded in yellow caution tape.

What was it he’d fought with Trish over? Jessica remembered hearing about the on-air clash after the fact. Hewett’s name had been brought up regarding a property deal gone dirty. Quickly, she unlocked her phone and typed into the internet search engine _William Hewett Orchid rumors._ The first result asked _Are you sure you didn’t mean_ Jennifer Love Hewitt next rumored to be in film The Wild Orchid _?_

Scrolling to the bottom of the page, Jessica found what she was looking for. Better still, she knew where she was looking. A man toeing the edge of the grid wanted to stay close to a place where no one would think to look, some place he also knew well. Billy Hewett was living at Orchid. “Taking his home to work…what a dick,” she muttered.

The nightclub was technically outside Hell’s Kitchen, but Jessica thought it fit right in. It was painted black, inside and out. But after sneaking past the cops through the back entrance, Jessica saw that it was more than dark; it was garish. The furniture was all dark wood and spindles. Blue chandeliers hung low from the ceiling, barely illuminating the club. Crossing the dance floor ended with a hard _chink_ under her boot. That’s what Jessica got for breaking into a closed club: the set of a Tim Burton film, complete with broken glass. Broken glass…

Apprehension tingling her core, Jessica followed the shards on the floor to a long, metallic counter. All of the black barstools were knocked over, now drenched on the ground with what smelled like vodka and triple sec. Since she doubted Hewett's capacity for friskiness, this could only mean one thing: someone had literally beaten her to the punch. 

Well, Hewett wasn’t going to announce himself. Her gut ignoring the _bad idea_ voice in her brain, Jessica drew a deep breath and yelled, “Billy Hewett! I know you’re in here. We need to talk!”

A distant voice echoed from behind her. “ _Go away."_

She clenched her fist. "Gladly! Just as soon as you tell me what you roofied Trish Walker with."

Dragging footsteps behind her scraped on more of the glass. "Is that what this is about?" asked Hewett, his voice mild but raspy.

Jessica frowned. He would be so much easier to read in the light. "What did you do to my friend?"

"Nothing."

Irritating. With a sigh, she said, "Either you talk, Billy, or I come after you and start breaking bones." Although, in all honesty, it sounded like Hewett already needed a doctor. Summing up the knowledge she'd put together from the internet, Jessica said, "I could also finish what Trish started. Expose your dirty dealings with the Triad. Sooner or later, someone will figure out how convenient it had been that you could slip drugs into her cocktails and an hour later she's out of your way."

Billy's throaty chuckle made the hairs on her skin stand up in the dark. "It was nothing personal. Just her or me. I chose me."

If there was one element of mysteries Jessica loathed, it was the cryptic. "Cut the shit, man. Why is my friend cuffed to a hospital bed?" No answer. Jessica started making her way in the direction of his voice. "Don't like that question? Okay, riddle me this, bitch - why don't you turn the goddamn lights on?"

"Can't," said the man at last. "It was all blown out by the last guy who came in."

An pinprick of nerve within her was breaking into a tidal wave - Jessica hated when the plot thickened. "Who was that?"

Hewett took a step back as she came closer. "I don't know! I thought he'd sent you - wanted to know about the Triad. I'll promise you the same as I promised him - if you get them out of the way, I'll confess to everything I've done."

Something in Jessica's gut wrenched the wrong way at this. "Bullshit. Why would you do that?"

"Because," breathed Hewett, "I'm more afraid of them than I am of the cops. Or either of you, for that matter."

Another puzzle piece. Jessica had to find this other guy. "What else can you tell me about him?" she prompted.

Hewett growled, "Just that he wore shades. In the dark. And he karate-chopped me over a counter."

Jessica could only think of one person who would wear dark glasses in a dark room. Someone who had impressively brutal interrogation methods, and would ask about the Triad. Who also, as a side note, would have attracted the love and attention of NYPD's favorite police dog. _Well_ , she thought, _this changes everything._ Matt Murdock was alive. And she was going to need his help.

 

 

 


	3. Veronica Versus Matlock Hour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can be an angel of mercy or give into hate  
> You can try to buy it just like every other careless mistake  
> How do you justify I’m mystified by the ways of your heart  
> With a million lies the truth will rise to tear you apart
> 
> ~ How Did You Love (by Shinedown)

Only dicks took their home to work with them. It was true about Billy Hewett; true about Jessica as well. Yet she had no one else she could question at four in the morning, and nowhere to go but home. Jessica stumbled into the darkness of Alias Investigations, imaginary butterflies ribbon-dancing through her brain. Her lungs were wrapped in overstimulated anxiety – the memories were coming back.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she breathed sharply, tripping on her way to her desk. Yanked the side drawer open – then cursed again with more vehemence. Her bottle of emergency scotch was gone, a note from her erstwhile roommate Malcom left in its stead.

Illuminated by outdoor streetlights that were faintly gleaming through her window, every word of his writing tied her stomach in knots.

_J-_

_Sorry about this. The last thing I want is to come in and find you dead. Call me when you’re not feeling suicidal. Or homicidal._

_-M_

 

Jessica slumped against the wall, raising her face towards the ceiling. Small tears began burning at the corners of her eyes. A near-nonstop stream of self-medicating would have irrevocably damaged your average John or Jane, but for Jessica, it had been soul-numbing at best. Once again, the Universe was using something that should have killed her to make her stronger. So why did the inner workings of her mind scream like someone was waving a chainsaw around in it? It was because when she closed her eyes, she saw the devil weaving in and out of a crowd like a wasp in a black coat. Not the one she was looking for, but the one she’d been slowly killing herself to avoid.

Four hours of sitting there, hugging her knees and wishing for the sun, it arrived – a pale, tiny flame shining through a lake of dim blue sky. Jessica went through the motions – changed her shirt, picked up her shoulder bag. Grabbed some aspirin and what was left of a bacon sandwich from the fridge. Finally, locking her door, she headed back to the streets of Hell’s Kitchen.

The direction of her mission was clearer now, the steps appearing before her feet one at a time. They led her to the source of a tantalizing smell: smoked meat and spices. Knowing better than to try to question New York vendors while he was serving a customer, Jessica began getting in line. She was behind seven others at the first polish stand – thank God the vendor worked at rocket speed. “Hi,” she said upon stepping up for her turn, a phony smile planted on her face. “I’ve been looking for my German Shepherd. I think my ex might have taken him home -.” She held up her phone, the screen boasting a business photo she’d dug up online of dark-haired, suit-donning Matthew Murdock. With his wine-black glasses, he was easy to remember. But the vendor shook just his head and asked for two bucks.

She used the same story for the next two vendor stands she found, doubt starting to weaken her plan. What if he wasn’t hiding out in Hell’s Kitchen? Was she really willing to search every sausage vendor til she hit Manhattan? But Murdock had an unwavering love affair with this city; people like him didn’t bloody their fists trying to protect anything less important.

And then, finally, Jessica hit pay dirt when the middle-aged polish dog seller in a newsboy cap said, “Back for another plain bun, ma’am?”

He wasn’t talking to her.

Jessica turned around to see the attractive woman with smoky light brown skin standing behind her. “Hey,” she said to Claire Temple. The nurse had accompanied Luke to Murdock’s funeral. As Jessica understood, it had been about more than being a supportive girlfriend. Claire had a history with Matt – one part romantic and two parts saving his ass from certain death. _And this is a pretty far walk from Harlem just to grab some smoked sausage,_ she realized. If Jessica were trying to both lie low and survive a tussle with operatives of the Chinese mafia, the one person she’d want to stick around would be someone in the medical field that was good at keeping secrets.

To the vendor, she said, “I’ll have two of those.” _There goes the drinking money,_ a voice in her head reminded her. Yet it was a small price to pay to save Trish from living out a Bruce Lee-meets-The Godfather scenario. Jessica handed Claire one of the plain bun polishes and said innocently, “Here I was, thinking you were a vegetarian or something.”

Claire frowned. “Thanks…I always assumed you lived on ice cubes and vinegar. Looks like we were both wrong.”

“Looks like.”

Walking down the street, they immersed themselves in chitchat, telling each other how they’ve been. Claire told her, “You know, Luke’s been meaning to invite you over for dinner.”

“That’s cool,” she replied, slowing down. “I’m not really dinner party guest material, though. Does he know what you’re doing in Hell’s Kitchen?”

Claire tensed visibly, and Jessica thought, _Gotcha._ “He doesn’t need to know I’m grabbing some food, does he?”

“No,” said Jessica, a face of nonchalance. “But he should probably know you’re hiding away your death-faking ex.”

Claire’s eyes widened, and both women came to a halt. “Luke always told me you were good,” she murmured, shaking her head with a stressed laugh.

Jessica folded her arms. “Actually, a junior high student that’s read too many Nancy Drew books could’ve put this one together. I need to see him.”

“Why?”

“Because I need his help. If the people he’s fighting right now deal in death and retribution, my friend has a target on her back.”

The nurse nodded, thoughtful. “Well, I told him that if his secret gets blown this time, I won’t cover for him. But I wouldn’t expect him to be happy to see you.”

“Good,” said Jessica. “Because I’m probably going to punch him in the head.”

***

According to Claire, the loft in which Murdock was staying belonged to friend that had left town with two full weeks left on the rent. Timing had worked in Claire’s favor, and she’d convinced the woman not to officially declare the vacancy until the end of the month. Which meant that Daredevil’s comeback to Hell’s Kitchen was going to be a temporary stint.

On the outside, Jessica was all bitch and business, yet on the inside…she was overwhelmed with irritation that he’d let her – let everyone – think he was dead. There was the smallest fraction of her heart that was relieved that he wasn’t. But the majority of her sentiment was spiked with anger – anger that had been sitting within her ever since she’d decided not to go with Luke to Murdock’s service. Anger that Matt had stayed behind for Elektra, and now he was likely staying dead for her too.

When they reached the building, Claire smiled sardonically. “By now he’s already known we were coming for at least ten minutes.”

“Yeah well, that’s plenty of time for a pro bono lawyer to prepare himself a decent defense.” Jessica moved to open the door, only for Claire’s hand to catch hers on the knob.

“Hey,” she said softly. “I was pissed at first too. Try to cut him some slack.”

Claire’s mild chastisement relegated Jessica’s cynical inner voices to a more subdued, disquieted head space. There was always more to the story. And, believe it or not, Jessica, Scary-Ass Jessica Jones, _wanted_ to give Matt Murdock a break. She definitely didn’t want to hate him.

They were inside for less than ten seconds before a thunder of steps rolled down the stairs. Hercules panted loudly, and barked even louder upon landing in front of them.

_BARK BARK!_

He lunged first for Jessica, who, recovering from the initial shock, dug her hand into her bag and pulled out the polish.

“Get back, boy!” she shouted, expecting him to snatch it out of her hand. To her surprise, Hercules demonstrated a sudden show of self-restraint. He sat on his hindquarters and emitted a tiny whistling noise.

“Neat trick,” she muttered, dropping the polish on the ground. The German Shepherd gulped it up in under three seconds.

Claire raised her eyebrows, stunned. “How…did you know?” she said slowly.

Jessica rolled her eyes. “I’ll explain later.” Then, raising her voice only slightly, she said, “Yeah, don’t think about slipping out any windows. We’re gonna have this out.”

Claire made a small sound in her throat that may have been a stifled chuckle, but Jessica was already marching on her way to the top. What she saw at the end was a small square of dust and concrete that made her own space look like the Ritz. Leaning against the corner of it, in a black hoodie and uncharacteristic jeans, was Matt Murdock.

“There aren’t any windows here,” he said, the hint of a smile hiding in the eyes behind his tinted glasses.

She swallowed back a bad taste of diatribe, warm words, and bacon sandwich. “I noticed.”

“It’s good to see you, Jessica,” he said, holding up a bandaged hand.

God, it was so annoying that she had to now act like he hadn’t heard a single word she’d said along the past two blocks. Thankfully, Hercules interrupted the moment by turning to Claire for her own polish.

“No,” Claire scolded, pushing him back. “Down! Down!” She grunted at Jessica, “Did you know there’s a good reason why I never became a veterinarian?”

“Same.” Jessica looked at Matt, who was waiting masked patience. “The NYPD offered me one grand to find your canine sidekick.”

Murdock shrugged. “I didn’t know about that. I couldn’t exactly turn him back in.”

 _She could have,_ thought Jessica, glancing at Claire. But she already had too many questions for him to add that card. Instead, she said, “Billy Hewett set up Trish so that she wound up drunk with her car diving into the center of a Triad limo.”

The lawyer frowned. “Why would he do that?”

“All I know is that they had a fight about her exposing Hewett’s illicit side business. I assume by the way he was limping around in the dark you know what that is?”

“He works for a middle-man, managing the Triad’s real estate affairs from overseas,” Murdock answered, sounding confused. “But facilitating a car crash doesn’t make sense. When these people want someone who’s causing problems gone, they make them disappear. They don’t frame them for drunk driving.”

Jessica thought backwards, remembering Hewett’s words. _It was her or me. Her or me._

Clarity sharpened for her, and she whispered, “Frame job…but not for us.”

“Pardon?”

“Hewett said he wasn’t afraid of the cops. He was afraid of his employers,” she said, rushing through the story. She told Murdock about Li Loong’s death and his father’s likely vengeance.

Murdock mulled over this for about five seconds before saying, “So your friend was never the target. She was the scapegoat because -.”

“Hewett killed Li Loong,” they said together.

The breath caught in her chest. _He would have made some decent competition as a P.I.,_ she thought, impressed. “Do you think it was an accident?”

“If he was scared enough to frame someone for it, then yes.”

She bit her lip. “Remind me to add to that guy’s shitty online reviews,” she said after a pause.

Murdock began pacing around his corner of the loft. Meanwhile, Claire spoke up. “Matt, if you finish what you started here, then you can bring Hewett in and clear that girl’s name.”

“That’s what I was thinking.” He directed his face at Jessica and said, “You can go ahead and take the dog back, collect your reward. I need to stop this organization from spreading their roots through the city.”

She stared at him. There he was, dismissing her. Except Jessica didn’t let other people shove her out. She could shut the door after her own ass, if and whenever she was ready. “I need you to help me with Trish. Not with the name clearing stuff - ,” she cut him off before he could interject, “but with security. Your friend Nelson told me about operatives getting on the hospital staff. I’m assuming it’s true?”

Murdock nodded. “So how do you expect me to get to the ringleaders and take care of your friend? Because I can do one, and tell you how to do the other if that’s what’s needed.” His tone was neutral, but she didn’t need his ears to detect his impatience.

“You’re not going to do anything against the Triad until tonight when you can get away with it,” she guessed. “You can watch Trish during daylight hours.”

A short, pained laugh escaped him. “Is that before or after I tell everyone I’ve been out of a coma for two months? That I’ve watched Foggy and Karen grieve and blame themselves for my empty coffin? That I’ve been -.” He stopped himself, looking like he’d swallowed shame in a bottle.

“Why not?” asked Jessica, disguising the pang she felt in reaction to his torment as criticism. “Is there a good reason why you want people who miss you to think you’re still dead?” _Unless it really is Elektra…_

But with the way Murdock responded softly, “It’s dangerous,” bitterness filled her once more.

“Okay,” she blurted, “I am ready to hit you now. I don’t give a rat’s ass where you’ve been or who you’ve been with. I do care that right now my friend’s life means less to you than your agenda -.”

“That’s not true -.”

“Shut up!” Those two words were delivered more harshly than Jessica intended. From behind her, Hercules whined, reminding her that Claire was also in the room. With a sigh, she said more calmly, “You’re in no position to argue. Either you can be useful or I can just go out and ruin your secret right freaking now.”

For a moment, the tension in the loft was electric. Murdock’s voice was slow, careful. “You would really do that?”

He was listening to her heartbeat, the goddamn human lie detector. Jessica took a deep breath and iterated, “I will absolutely do that. Besides, the person you really should be talking to for information on the Triad is Li Loong’s driver. I know how you can get to him.”

Claire asked in surprise, “You do?”

Jessica nodded. “I need his word though. No matter what.”

Murdock removed his glasses, and somehow this always made him younger, softer in Jessica’s eyes. From uncompromising attorney to boy next door, this was yet another face that he wore. Which one was real? “You have my word,” he said, his voice quiet. “What’s your plan for the hospital?”

“Easy. You give me the questions, I’ll get the answers. Coach me through the legal stuff so that I can help Nelson get Trish out on bail.”

“Hmm,” said Murdock, shaking his head. “There are only about twenty ways that plan can end with the wrong person dead or in jail.”

Jessica wasn’t one for feeling insufferably smug, but she allowed herself a moment of self-appreciation. “And there’s one way that a P.I. can make sure that doesn’t happen. We call them listening bugs.”

An impressed whistle came from Claire. “Sounds like Veronica Mars has Matlock at 1-0.”

If Murdock could have effectively pulled a Jessica Jones eyeroll at that moment, she would have called them even. Instead, he put a hand to his forehead like he was nursing a headache. “Really, Claire?” But Jessica detected a trace of amusement in his tone all the same.

Claire picked up a dog leash from the floor and fastened it onto Hercules’s collar. “So long, jerk,” she said, stroking his pointed brown ears. She stood and handed Jessica the polish. “For the road."

Jessica nodded, understanding. Then she ushered Hercules to the stairs, shouting back, “See you in a few.”

“Jessica -,” said Murdock.

She turned her head. He seemed uncomfortable. “Stay sober.”

Jessica blinked. “Save me a chip.” And let the thousand-dollar dog lead the way to her one-hundred dollar paycheck.

 

 


	4. Don’t Hate, Meditate!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the delays in chapters! Please know I have every intent to finish this story, I just keep getting burned out real easy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I break the glass, then I'll have to fly  
> There's no one to catch me if I take a dive  
> I'm scared of changing, the days stay the same  
> The world is spinning but only in gray
> 
> ~ Shatter Me (by Lindsey Stirling/Lzzy Hale)

_Isn’t this fun, Jessica?_

Acknowledging this inner voice was wearing on her. It spoke to her frequently, clung to her consciousness the way the remains of a rubbed-off sticker did leather. The last time that she’d forcefully ignored it, she’d wound up coming to in the shower, water cold after running the duration of a Peter Jackson film.

And this time, there was no cheating around it. Jessica Jones needed to stay clean to look out for Trish, for as long as it took for Murdock to kick the Triad’s ass back to China. Meaning she had few hours of precious sanity to spare from here.

_Birch Street_ , she thought. _Higgins Drive. Cobalt Lane_.

Whether Murdock’s warning to break from the booze stemmed from knowing her well enough, or it was just his heightened senses catching a whiff of trainwreck coming off her, the outcome was as harsh as it was necessary. Letting Jessica’s head scream and cry each time she passed a bar along the way to the precinct was enough reason to half-wish someone would club her in the head, so that she could wake and discover her whole life had been an epic nightmare. And the longer the morning wore on, the better she felt about not being the one who’d scheduled an eleventh hour Chinese smackdown for that night. Matthew Murdock was more than welcome to bleed on the pavement while Jessica took refuge in a shot glass that wasn’t served by Josie.

But God, the space between her ears pulsed.

The dog had been no help. Hercules continued his pattern of distraction, straining his leash to get at this baby stroller or that pigeon. By the end of the trip Jessica had garnered several restraining orders on his behalf. The New York police taking him off her hands was the most useful they’d been for her in recent months.

Afterwards, a return to Alias Investigations was needed. Jessica finding Malcom eating pizza in his boxers was not. “Get the hell off my bed,” she said in disgust, throwing her bag in his direction. “You’d better not be washing that down with my scotch.”

Malcom set aside his box of mushroom-and-pepperoni. “I heard what happened to Trish,” he told her. “That’s some cold hard bullshit they’re saying about her.”

Jessica arched a critical eye at him. “And your response to it is stuffing your piehole while sitting in your underwear.”

He folded his arms, either defensive or forthright. Jessica’s brain was too starved to tell. “I’m pretty sure choosing food over hard liquor means I am _not_ the one with the problem here.”

_Touche,_ she thought, rummaging through her side drawer.

His honest rebuttal didn’t make her want to evict him – again – any less. But Jessica wasn’t here for a one-man intervention. She wasn’t even here to reclaim her scotch. Opening the cardboard box that held one of her old cameras, Jessica pulled out a handful of used negative strips, a small notebook, and, baffling her, a pair of dirty socks.

“Do you remember where I put the audio receiver set?” she said, impatient.

“The bugs?” Malcolm frowned, surprised. But he knew better than to question further today. He dug into the pockets of his jeans and pulled out a nude-colored earpiece the side of a jellybean, and a tiny padded microphone. Jessica stared skeptically at the devices collecting in his light brown palm along with pizza sauce.

“Okay, I’m not in the mood for this,” she began, “but what were those doing in your pants?”

Malcolm shook his head, seeming affronted. “You don’t remember telling me to go solo on a homewrecker case two days ago? When I kept calling you out because you’d already committed to it? Yeah, I tried these babies out then. Work great.” He slapped the pieces into Jessica’s stalled hands.

She stared at the ear piece – the edges were coated with grease and what suspiciously looked like earwax. “You could have at least washed it first,” she grumbled.

But Malcolm shrugged it off and started playing a YouTube video on his phone. No one ever managed an intervention through passive aggressive disapproval, so there was that at least. Or so she thought.

 

***

 

At eleven a.m. Jessica returned to the loft to find the door unlocked, Claire gone, and Matt sitting in the center of the room, glasses off, cross-legged as if he’d learned it from Buddha. In a way, he did remind Jessica of illustrated pictures she’d seen of holy teachers, the kind that told parables or wrote epistles from prison cells. _St. Matthew,_ she thought wryly. _Do you hate blind or Catholic jokes more?_

“Where’s the nurse?” she asked after three minutes.

It took a slow breath for him to respond. “Visiting Luke.”

Luke Cage tended to be a reasonable guy, forgiving and somewhat slow to violence. If he found out Claire was harboring a man who’d let him think he was dead, a man who’d died with his respect, then he’d probably take a walk and come back. But that respect would be irreparably damaged. And if he found out Jessica’s involvement, his respect for her could likely face the same fate.

“Was it worth it?” she said suddenly. “Whatever you got from staying dead and leaving town?”

Murdock’s lip twitched in agitation, but he didn’t break from his posture. He replied evenly, “What I got was the freedom to continue doing what I was doing before. The people I love can no longer be used as leverage against me. I can protect them now without forcing them to deal with the fallout of my actions.”

Jessica scoffed. “You make it sound like that’s all you were for them. But maybe it’s easier to make these choices with Elektra by your side.” With a flick of her palm, she tossed the microphone pad at him. His right hand snatched it from the air automatically, and examined the texture of the wire. “You can already hear me from the next room, so this means I’ll be able to hear you when I’m with the driver.”

“Great,” said Murdock, his tone clipped. It was possible Jessica had gotten under his skin. It was a pity she had to be the one to use the ear piece formerly encrusted with Malcolm’s earwax. She wouldn’t have washed it off for Murdock.

He shifted until he was comfortable enough to stand. Once he was up, Jessica asked, “How often do you do that?”

“I try every day.”

“Does it work?”

“Well enough,” he said. “It helps me conserve energy more than peace, which I’ll need tonight. You could probably get something out of it.”

Jessica, who didn’t laugh easy, almost snorted. “What, meditate? Hard pass, Murdock. What do we need from Li Loong’s driver?”

Murdock stuffed his hands inside his jean pockets. “Do you remember Madame Gao?” he asked.

Back when she’d first met him, and they’d teamed up with Luke and Danny Rand to stop an organization more catastrophic than the Triad, or the Yakuza, they’d had four leading adversaries. One of them had been Madame Gao, who’d been in the Midland Circle building when it fell, along with Murdock and Elektra. Good thing too, because that woman would use her energy to throw cinderblocks at them like she was frigging Yoda.

“Please tell me she’s still dead,” Jessica replied.

Murdock shrugged. “As far as I know. But she fronted for the Triad here before, which means I have to find out who took her place. Jessica, I need that information tonight, so if this limo driver turns out like Billy Hewett and knows nothing, then –.”

Jessica interrupted. “Hold up. Why exactly is there a deadline on this mission?”

“Because.” Murdock sighed. “Because that’s how long Elektra gave me. If I fail, we retcon to China and attack at the source.”

“And let me guess. You don’t want to leave. So don’t,” she said simply.

Murdock bristled defensively. “Attacking the Triad in China is much more dangerous, and it’s just the two of us. I wouldn’t go there on my own, much less want her to face them alone.”

So there it was. Murdock’s girlfriend had given him a deadline, which left very little room for error today. And that made something very obvious to Jessica: Tonight, she was going to need to fight by his side

**Author's Note:**

> my first time writing in this particular universe. there may be follow-up stories, depending on the success of this one.
> 
> a three-shot fic, possibly four.
> 
> ETA: Or twice that much.


End file.
